


a little bit of inertia (all we need is)

by disarmed



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magical Tattoos, Mentions of Suicide, Near Death Experiences, Slow Burn, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarmed/pseuds/disarmed
Summary: Everybody is born with their cause of death written on their wrist. You can try to avoid it, but it is inevitable. Ben’s is a name. And she just walked into his office.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a gift for the lovely [sithlordb26](https://twitter.com/sithlordb26) who specifically requested angst and pain ❤ the original prompt credit goes to [galacticidiots](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots), and you can find the og tweet [here](https://twitter.com/galacticidiots/status/1306071574278270976). i will never have enough thanks for [reveriemou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveriemou/pseuds/reveriemou) who consistently beta-reads & reminds me to use apostrophes, but also tolerates my nonsense when i scream in all caps. ily. (pls note tags will update as we go forward; keep an eye out)
> 
> as always, a bit of creative license with this prompt. title taken from the hush sound's 'momentum.' if you haven't listened to them, you should. reylo feels always.

Returning to New York after a decade abroad, Ben Solo had found himself in a city that was foreign, and still, indelibly, the one he knew as a child growing up on the Upper East Side.

The decision to return hadn’t been one of excessive planning; more like an inevitable end to the path he had set himself on when he’d joined the First Order. Fast tracked to become one of the world's elite law firms, First Order was recognized for its corporate, intellectual property, litigation, M&A, private equity, and restructuring work. Benjamin Solo was the lawyer leading them to success. Milan, Paris and most recently London—cities that Ben had dominated as his work entered headlines around the world—were all stepping stones bringing him back here.

He was to become a partner, eventually. His name would be printed on every building and every letterhead alongside Snoke’s. As it were, being the newly instated CEO of First Order’s New York division, he still had some _proving_ to do.

This evening, true to its name, the city that never sleeps, its fluorescent skyline sat hazy behind his crystal tumbler, the likes of which held a finger of Macallan’s. He surveyed his drink lazily, long fingers tipping it back and forth to watch the amber liquid inside climb and fall at his will. If he had a better sense of humor, he might have smiled, but he did not, so he remained straight-faced even though the irony wasn’t lost. Ben briefly considered that becoming inebriated on a twenty-one-year aged Single Malt was not the height of society, but then, he wasn’t around anyone enough for them to care.

On the thirty-first floor, with nothing but his case files and floor-to-ceiling windows, Ben was suddenly strickenly reminded of how very much alone he was.

It was the most unbearable thing of all to be alone, and not to know if you were alone before God or just alone in the world—the possibility that there was no meaning to anything or that there was meaning at all.

Habitually, Ben traced the ink on the underside of his right wrist with his fingertip.

_Well_ , he thought, tearing his gaze from the name inked into his skin and swallowing what was left in his glass. _Better to be feared than loved._

  
  


*

  
  


She walked into the office on a Tuesday afternoon. Her pencil skirt brushed the tops of her tanned knees and her crisp, white blouse gave only a glimpse of décolletage. As far as interns went, she was an attractive one, whilst also maintaining an excellent image of professionalism. Ben noticed she had rather shapely calves as he passed her by in the lobby; her long legs were crossed neatly at the knee.

He wasn’t an eunuch; women were a commodity he often appreciated, some more… _thoroughly_ , than others. They were few and far between, of course. Work kept him busy enough that all he had time for were fleeting dalliances; not that was he looking for anything more than that.

“Aurelia Niima.”

Ben, who had been waiting patiently for the lift, glanced down at the short, dark-haired man who had appeared by his side.

“Come again, Mitaka?”

“Her name,” explained Mitaka dryly as the doors opened before them, and they stepped into the lift. “There are five new interns this quarter. The one we just passed is Miss Aurelia Niima.”

Occasionally, Ben forgot that he’d been given Mitaka as his assistant. Granted, he wasn’t in the habit of giving many people the time of day. Mitaka was a quiet, plain human being, but he possessed a wealth of knowledge and was particularly adept at noticing things. The work he undertook, both above and below board, was invaluable. Though, mused Ben, as they ascended in a box of chrome and mirrors, it wouldn’t do to have Mitaka noticing too much about _him_. So far, the man had been adept at knowing his place; Ben had yet to find the need to remind him of it.

They continued their journey in silence, and when the lift came to a stop and the door opened, Mitaka gestured politely for Ben to go first. Ben gave the other man a curt nod as he exited the lift, eyes catching on the ink that flashed at Mitaka’s wrist, just below his shirt sleeve.

_Subway_.

Before Ben could decide whether he wanted to broach the subject, Mitaka did it for him.

“The rail or the sandwich shop? I honestly can’t tell.” He looked curiously at his own wrist, turning it this way and that way as if more ink might appear while they made their way down the hall towards Ben’s office. “My mother used to joke that it would keep me fit, at the very least. Walk everywhere and avoid fast food chains.”

He shot Ben a self-deprecating smile and wasn’t fazed when he did not receive one back.

“Interesting,” said Ben, with little sincerity.

He had been around enough people and seen enough wrists in his lifetime to stop caring what everyone’s stories were. It was a dividing topic, also. You never knew how one was going to react. When Ben had been young and naïve, dating women despite the name branded on his own skin, he’d often ask about their cause of death. One girl—a redhead, with a dainty nose and ivory skin —had promptly burst into tears. Ben had passed her napkins, attempting to console her, and seen _suicide_ stamped across her wrist, the skin so translucent he could see the veins underneath.

Stopping in front of his office, Ben placed a hand on the door and looked back at Mitaka expectantly.

“One of the interns is going to be assigned to our department,” Mitaka told him blithely. “Shall I make it so that it’s her?”

Without giving anything away, Ben asked, “Why would it matter?”

Mitaka shrugged as if it didn’t.

“If she’s capable,” acquiesced Ben. “Vet them thoroughly, assign the most competent to us.” He gave Mitaka a long, studious look, to which the other man didn’t wither in the slightest. Interesting. “That will be all. Thank you, Mitaka.” 

  
  


*

  
  


The next time he saw her, she was fetching coffee. Expertly juggling espressos and an Americano, Ben graciously held the door to the boardroom open for her. He ignored the way the men in the boardroom gaped, too drawn to the way her eyes crinkled in the corners as her expression shifted into one of gratefulness.

“Thank you!”

He was pleasantly surprised to find she had a British accent.

She shot him a wide, bright smile, slipping past him, her heels tapping softly on the floor as he watched her walk into the room.

Ben wasn’t a man who tended to linger; on women, or on anything, really. Had he been, he might have stayed holding the door long enough to watch her glance back over her shoulder at him with a curious look in her eyes.

  
  


*

  
  


Ben’s days in New York started to blur, and soon he’d been there for almost a month.

The Firm was a steady, growing business, although Snoke had little to say in the way of praise. That didn’t come as a surprise to Ben, who had spent so many years under the older man’s tutelage; in fact, he would have been more shocked to hear sincere approval.

He was buried in paperwork when someone rapped lightly on his door. He looked up, ready to be irritated, until he saw who it was.

“Niima,” he murmured, sitting up in his chair. “What is it?”

He’d seen her around the firm enough to be on a clipped, last name basis with her, though he could tell she didn’t like it. Her nose crinkled ever so slightly, and she would narrow her eyes for a split second before appearing indifferent. Why he continued to address her like this, despite her distaste, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m a glorified carrier pigeon, Mr. Solo,” she deadpanned, hefting what appeared to be a weighty stack of files in her arms. “Mr. Hux said these were to come to you.”

He gestured to a clear space on his desk. She strode across the room in long confident strides and placed the files down. As she leaned over, Ben surreptitiously glanced at where the teal collar of her blouse drooped open at her neck. He caught the swell of a tanned breast and a smattering of freckles before she straightened, and he pretended to be interested in the contract in front of him.

“You know, it’s well past lunch time.”

Ben glanced up. Why was she still here? He checked his watch, noting that yes, it was indeed past two in the afternoon, but that was hardly out of the ordinary for him.

“Yes,” he drawled. “I do know how to tell time, Niima.”

Her nose scrunched again, infinitesimally. “Perhaps, you would consider getting something to eat?”

Amused, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle beneath his desk. “Who says I haven’t eaten?”

She tilted to the side, resting her weight on her right leg, and crossed her arms over her chest. It pressed her breasts up slightly enough to show the line of her cleavage. A better man might have looked away, but when presented with the _second_ opportunity to glimpse a look, Ben allowed himself an indulgent, fleeting glance. If she noticed, she gave nothing away to show that she had.

“Consider me a carrier pigeon with _eyes_ , Mr. Solo. You took your coffee, black, two sugars, when you arrived this morning. You haven’t left your office since.” She looked pointedly at the bin near him, where his discarded takeaway cup lay desolately.

Annoyed, Ben considered her for a moment. “Let me rephrase my question, _why_ do you care?”

He could tell she’d been ready to lay it on him, her shoulders tensed and her chin lifted, no doubt incited by his dry, mocking tone. Instead, her face softened and she offered him a one-shouldered shrug and a strange, small smile.

“Should it matter why, as long as someone does?”

Glancing at the contract in his hands, the boring contract that could wait, the contract that he was working on in advance, he let it fall down on his desk. Ben surveyed her for a long moment, a feeling of curiosity stirring within him, and then stood abruptly. “I expect you to have somewhere in mind?”

“Of course,” she chirped, but her sharp grin didn’t make him feel particularly at ease.

  
  


*

  
  


“This is what you eat for lunch?” Ben asked disdainfully, as a street vendor slapped a pile of hot, caramelized onions atop a hotdog.

“Yeap,” she replied happily. “Mustard and ketchup on both, please!” She grinned as the condiments were drizzled heartily atop the dogs before handing the man six dollars. “Here.” She shoved a hot dog into Ben’s hands, and he took it from her precariously, wincing as ketchup dripped onto his fingers.

“Messy,” he noted dryly.

Aurelia had already taken a mouthful of hers, and was chewing comically, a blissful expression across her face.

“There is nothing like an N-Y-C hotdog,” she said, after swallowing. “It is top tier foodie goodness, don’t you think?” When Ben didn’t reply immediately with outright agreement, her look turned accusatory. “You have had a street dog before, right?”

Ben sighed. “Perhaps, when I was fifteen?” He frowned at her gaping expression. “Close your mouth, Niima. You look like a codfish.”

She laughed, a bright, loud sound that made other street-goers glance their way. “Showing your age there, Mr. Solo.”

Their ten-year age gap wasn’t _that_ vast, he thought sourly. However, he was too surprised by her casual, light-hearted teasing to be properly offended, so he took a bite out of his hotdog instead, chasing the strings of onion and making a real mess of it. Hunched, he tried to turn so that this _woman_ wouldn’t be given any more ammunition with which to tease him, but it was a futile effort, for she’d caught sight of him slurping at the onion, and the mustard that flecked his cheek.

She tried, futilely, to keep a straight face before failing, and bursting out into another loud, unabashed laugh.

“So used to dining with silver spoons, you’ve forgotten how to eat like the rest of us, huh?” She handed him a napkin, which he snatched begrudgingly out her hand.

“I admit, I’m used to more… refined dining establishments,” he grumbled, patting sauce from his face.

“The first thing I did when I came to the city was buy a hot dog.”

She took bites out of her food as they walked, weaving through the throngs of people on the sidewalk. It didn’t seem as if she had any destination in mind, and Ben vaguely recognised they were making a loop back to the office. He allowed her to lead, mostly due to the fact that he was too preoccupied keeping his suit clear of any wayward condiments oozing from his food.

She was looking at him now, expectant, and Ben realised she had asked him a question, which he hadn’t heard.

“Apologies,” he muttered. “I didn’t hear that.”

“What was the first thing you did when you came to New York?”

Ben paused, frowning. “I’ve been working.”

She nodded slowly, eyebrows rising. “Yeah, but what was the first _fun_ thing you did?” She gestured vaguely to the streets around them. “You know, like try a street dog, see the Museum of Natural History, or visit the downtown art scene?”

For the first time, in a very long time, Ben found himself at a loss for words.

She was still watching him expectantly, licking the last of the ketchup from her fingers. “There must have been _something_ you wanted to do when you first got here?”

And Ben, quite suddenly, realised he had never tried to do what his thirteen-year-old self had always longed to do; stay out until sunrise and have the one, perfect night he’d dreamed of, the kind of night bohemian Greenwich Village poet Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote of, staying out “very tired” and “very merry” until dawn.

Without knowing why, shame, hot and viscous, coursed through his body.

“I don’t have time for fun,” he snapped at her.

She flinched at his coldness; at the abrupt change in personality. Looking around, he found the nearest trashcan and dumped what was left of his hotdog into it with more force than necessary.

“You’re only an intern,” he continued callously. “I’d hardly expect you to understand.”

He strode away, leaving her alone on the sidewalk.

  
  


*

  
  


Any interactions from that moment onward were clipped and cool. Ben considered having her moved to another area of the firm, but despite their altercation, she had appeared nothing but professional and for that, he couldn’t fault her. In fact, the incident might not have happened, given that it was not mentioned again over the weeks that came. He had decided that whatever dalliance might have crossed his mind regarding her, it wasn’t on the cards. An intern, usually, would have been fair game. They were eager to please, didn’t stick around long, and held little in the way of sway on the power scale. Easy things, but not exactly _challenging_.

Ben devoted his time, as usual, to his work.

Hux and Phasma, after an expensive but rewarding lunch with business moguls Coltilian and Benson, presented him with a contract that was sure to make even Snoke’s haggard face crack in approval. The First Order was steadily taking control of the city’s most valuable names, and the gap between himself and making partner was lessening with each passing day.

Niima appeared in his office, three weeks after the hotdog incident, holding a single sheet of paper.

“Unless that is the Poltgiester contract,” he said snidely, “hand it to Mitaka.”

He made a point of studiously ignoring her, but when he didn’t hear the sound of the door closing, he glanced up. She was standing there, halfway between his desk and the door, expression nervous but resolute.

“What is it, Niima?” Even to him, his tone was particularly icy.

To her credit, she didn’t flinch.

“I think it’s absolutely ridiculous that you were born in this city and have never taken the time to appreciate it.”

It came out in a rush, one word on the heel of the last.

Ben leaned back in his chair, reigning in the flare of his temper at her audacity, and considered what to do with her. It was a bold assumption on her part; not only because she didn’t know him, not in the slightest, but that he was ultimately the judge, jury and executioner of her legal career.

At that very moment, had he wanted to, Ben could have decided that Aurelia Niima would never work for any firm in the Tri-State area. Perhaps, even, in any law firm anywhere.

Although, he couldn’t help but consider her statement.

It was true; he had spent most of his childhood wishing he was anywhere else in the world.

Ben had been a lonely child, and read too much; Latin, in particular. He’d taken in an almost desperate, literary way to etymology. It hadn’t been a particularly academic approach to the discipline. He had read a lot of Nabokov and Jeannette Winterson (the likes of which he had found in his mother’s bookshelf). He’d unknowingly cherry-picked linguistically playful books, which in hindsight, he had come to realise centered on the playfulness of sex.

Ultimately, the part that he had taken away, from all of his reading, was the idea that you could look closely at a word and see its meaning, hidden.

You could hold it up, examine the shards, and get to the core of things that way.

It was what made him so good at his job; the clinical, studious approach to business.

What it didn’t make him good with was people.

“I’ll indulge this, for a moment.”

She seemed to breathe easier when he spoke, no doubt terrified about what his response would be.

Ben tapped his fingers rhythmically atop his desk, weighing all his words and considering what she might have to say in response to them. It was like chess; conversations with people. It always paid to be three steps ahead, that way you always came out on top.

“What do you want from me, Niima?” He gestured to her person and surveyed her shrewdly. “Were you hoping that appealing to my better nature might culminate in my favor, towards you?”

“No!”

Her outburst was not unprecedented; Ben had known there was a temper laying in wait beneath that bright laugh and efficient persona. He raised his eyebrows in a silent acknowledgment for her to continue.

“If you’re suggesting that I was trying to _bed you_ to climb the career ladder, you’re wrong.” She spat the words, as if the mere suggestion was a slander against her person.

It could have been; Ben didn’t know her at all, really. She strode towards him, her fingers white-knuckled as she clenched the piece of paper she had walked in with. He was, admittedly, interested to know what it was. It was crumpled, now, from her anger, but he could only make out a singular layer of print near the top of the page.

“It took a long time for me to realise I wasn’t living, at one point in my life.” The words were quiet, a soft admittance. It wasn’t what Ben was expecting, but he allowed her to continue. “I was _existing_.” She looked pointedly at him. “I see you doing the same. I’d like to try and rectify that, if you’d let me.”

She placed the paper down on his desk.

Ben glanced down, where all the header read was: One Night in New York.

“One night, that’s all I’m asking. Tell me what you’ve always wanted to do, and we can make it happen.” She swallowed, stepping away from his desk.

Ben picked up the paper and looked from it, to her, and back again. Pointedly, he held her gaze while he crumpled it into a ball and dropped it to the floor.

“You show promise in this line of work,” he told her evenly, and noticed the way she blinked back tears. “However, your empathy will be your undoing.”

He stood, walking around his desk and brushing past her to open the door. She turned, but she did not bow her head or offer any other sign of subservience. Angered, Ben reached out to grab her arm as she went to leave.

“The next time you presume to know me, it will be the last.” He told her, in a voice like ice. She winced when he tightened his grip. “Do you understand, Niima?”

A tear escaped her right eye, tracking down her cheek, but she looked him straight in the face when she replied.

“Yes, Mr. Solo.”

He grimaced, and then let her go.

“Good. Now, get out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for making it this far ❤ happy new year to you all, and in the interim, you can find me on twitter: [@disarmed_](https://twitter.com/disarmed_)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around them, chatter continued and the music played on, and yet Ben felt that there was nothing in this moment other than the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you, [b](https://twitter.com/sithlordb26), for your extreme patience. i hope this scroll bar suits your tastes a bit more ;) and to [kylee](https://twitter.com/reveriemou), for whom without this would be a veritable mess. thank you for being such a wonderful editor, and for all your thoughtful feedback.

It took a quarter of a bottle of McCallans before Ben took out a pen and paper and drafted a wish list. It ended up being so lengthy that he realised right away that his perfect one night in New York would actually be several nights.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on the _why_ in regards to making it—curiosity, perhaps? While Niima’s insubordination and impertinence had done nothing but fuel his ire at the time of her request, now, some several hours later, he had to consider the possibility that she might have been right about him. It was a burrowing, venomous little thought that grew with every passing moment as he replayed their conversation over and over in his head.

The list had started as a way to curb the itch. Perhaps, should he indulge the idea niggling in the back of his mind, it might pass on.

It hadn’t, of course. He had bravely been fooling himself. Instead, it had brought to light the very distinct lack of _life_ he had engaged in throughout the course of his adulthood, and quite frankly, his childhood. As a young boy, he had been prone to bouts of silence interspersed with temper tantrums, a heady combination gifted to him by the polarizing personalities of his parents. He had spent his fair share of time under the watchful eye of nannies and the like, followed by the rebelliousness of his teenage years. Boarding school had been the obvious choice—he can’t remember seeing tears in his mother’s eyes as she said goodbye to him—and then in college, Snoke had found him in his second year of law school.

Snoke had sold him this future through a delicately woven web of promises; it was indubitable.

Ben thought back to his first six weeks under the employment of the First Order. There wasn’t much to remember really, considering that he had been drunk for most of them. He had been young and, as young people often were, impressionable. Snoke had been a veritable shriveled woodland sprite at that stage, albeit a hunch-backed one, leading Ben down a murky path with the promise of wealth, women, and parties—all the riotous parties that lasted all night, the starlit limoncello-in-a-glass-bottle rooftop parties, the ones where he had spent more time than he’d care to admit _rubbing shoulders_ and exchanging niceties.

Ben had never been good at _niceties_.

Perhaps, Snoke had wanted something different for him back then, the way he had tried to parade Ben around and prop him up at events. Now, Ben could admit that it was all due to his lineage. He had been the son of one of New York’s most formidable politicians; the kind with the deepest pockets from an old-money trust an only child could wish for.

Ben looked down at the scribbled notes of his wish list. Money, notoriety, and riviera, and for what? He lounged back on his sofa, the leather soft and pliable beneath his thighs, and delved into the dark recess of his mind that held the few, scarce indecisions of his life.

Partner.

That’s what all of this was about, wasn’t it? Making partner. Or, Ben acknowledged sourly, was it about getting out from under Snoke’s thumb? He reached clumsily for his tumbler of whiskey and missed, knuckles pushing it further out of his reach.

“Fuck.” He bypassed the glass and reached for the bottle instead, fingers curling around the neck and bringing it to his mouth for a heavy swallow.

Again, the _height_ of society, he thought bitterly.

_One Night in New York_.

Ben looked at his haphazard notes, spanning a page and a half of lines, doodles, addresses, and question marks because he didn’t know if half these things still existed, or if he’d imagined them from a lifetime ago. From the exceptional, albeit peculiar, imagination of a child that he no longer was, that he no longer remembered.

As the whiskey continued to cloud his sobriety, he slouched further down on the sofa, and the late night view from his high rise slid sideways as the alcohol pushed him to the brink of heavy sleep.

*

When Mitaka entered his office and said, “Should I let Miss Niima know that her internship with the First Order has come to an end?” Ben assumed that the girl had flirted with the low-brow habit of _office gossip_ and told whomever she was acquainted with about his behavior. Mitaka, it would seem, was likely doing damage control.

Ben pretended as if this were all beneath him.

“Come again, Mitaka?” he asked tiredly, turning from his computer monitor to face the man.

Mitaka, to his credit, did not seem perturbed. “Miss Niima, the intern assigned to our division. Would you like me to let her go, Sir?”

He did not explain further, nor did he look at Ben as if this were a game of cat and mouse—he was simply asking. It was plausible that Mitaka had overheard their altercation last week, more probable than the idea of Niima engaging in idle gossip, even given what little he knew of her character.

Ben thought about it for a long moment.

“Is anyone, other than yourself, aware of the altercation?” he asked, eventually.

Mitaka shook his head. “No, Sir. She hasn’t said a word, as far as I know.”

“Then she stays, for now.”

He should have said ‘get rid of her.’ The girl was becoming more trouble than she was worth. Yet, beneath Hux’s latest proposal and the contracts that had landed on his desk this morning, Ben’s folded sheet of _One Night in New York_ laid in wait—the wish list mostly complete.

“Understood, sir.” With a curt nod, Mitaka took his leave.

*

Approaching Niima was Ben’s next hurdle.

Surprisingly, he found himself worrying about it more than he had the Farrow contract, which had been half a million dollars, to put it in perspective. So, in a fashion very true to himself and his profession, he found himself watching her from a distance, attempting to glean any information that may make his approach more palatable.

Whether anyone else in the building found his current desire to _mingle_ odd (he was sure they did; they were all too frightened to say anything, most likely), Ben cared little, choosing instead to drop in for random visits in offices that he hadn’t graced since his first arrival at the firm.

(The only person to say anything was Hux when Ben walked past his office for the _second_ time that week and peered in.

“Are you lost?” asked Hux in his nasally, British accent, not bothering to hide the curiosity in his voice. His icy eyes, however, held a sharp, wary look, like that of a rabbit who had come across a fox. Ben made a point of avoiding his office from then on.)

Niima, he realised quickly, liked talking to people. She liked hearing their stories.

The First Order wasn’t particularly known for pleasantries and politeness, and yet Niima swept through their offices with an infectious smile and a spring to her step. She wore down even Phasma—whom Ben regarded as one of the most level-headed and competent Contract Lawyers in his arsenal—into returning a hesitant, albeit awkward, smile. Ben didn’t pay much attention to his employees outside of the work they presented, but he was sure that Phasma hadn’t so much as lifted a single corner of her mouth since he had met her.

Ben found himself disappointed (and not at all jealous) that Niima believed socializing to be an apt pastime. None of the other interns bothered, nor hardly any of his actual staff, and he did not understand why she did. There didn’t seem to be anything behind it, either. When he had accused her of climbing the social ladder in an attempt for favoritism in the workplace, it had been a deliberate dig, but also a genuine accusation. She was not the first, nor would she be the last, to try.

However, it would appear that Niima was nice purely for the sake of being nice.

Ben didn’t understand it all. What was the advantage?

It also turned out she liked listening to jazz, drinking champagne, and looking at the murals on the bar wall—all by Ludwig Bemelmans, writer and illustrator of the Madeline books—marveling at a place she never thought she'd one day be able to go and afford.

The place in question was Bemelmans.

As the Upper East Side had changed, with its slick restaurants and fancy bars, the Carlyle Hotel and Bemelmans bar had remained themselves; elegant, friendly and discreet. Ben had been frequenting the bar since he was young, in tow behind his mother as she met friends and colleagues in the evening, when the low light shone off the ceiling, which was covered in gold leaf.

Ben came to know this about Niima because he had followed her there one Friday, and sat shrouded in partial shadow as she chatted with her friends and marveled at the ostentatiousness of New York and its inhabitants, while the pianist played a myriad of pieces to delight the ears.

While he was hardly out of place, Ben couldn’t help but notice that Niima most certainly was, as did others.

For someone who wished to show him the _life_ of New York, she glanced around the storied bar with wide-eyed wonder, as uninitiated as the foreign tourists that made their way here. Bemelmans was one of the few places where you could witness the dwindling bridge between the glittering opulence of New York City and the _real_ world.

In a moment of suspicion (granted, he was often suspicious of everyone and everything), he once again doubted the validity of her offer.

Ben—dressed in a pinstripe Paul Stuart suit that hinted at something Parisienne in design—looked for all the world as if he belonged in the distilled luster and charm of the bar, sipping indulgently at an Old Cuban. Niima, on the other hand, garbed in a plain, forgettable shirt and skirt combination that had likely come off a clearance rack at Nordstrom Rack, laughed too loudly and appeared far too excited for the regular clientele.

He knew of one of her table-mates, Poe Dameron, whose parents, now deceased, had once come from old money. Though most of their wealth had depleted over the years, there was still enough to keep their only son in a relatively comfortable lifestyle. The last Ben had heard, he had been pursuing _piloting_ lessons as a pastime, along with bedding any women that crossed his path. (The stray, insidious thought didn’t fail to cross Ben’s mind that perhaps Niima had been or was a conquest of Dameron’s.) The other person, a man, was someone Ben did not know, although he was handsome, with umber skin and an easy smile. The worn, tan jacket he wore appeared at the very least to be of fine quality leather.

He slung his arm across Niima’s shoulders in a familiar way that itched at Ben’s throat, though he could not say why.

While the three of them made use of Bemelmans’ discounted drinks menu, Ben lounged in his solidarity and considered his behaviour might be considered somewhat… _questionable_. He waved it off as gathering information, much as he would back when he was a young lawyer, but the novelty wasn’t lost on him, and for a fleeting moment, he was caught up in the frivolity of his early-twenties.

“Mr. Solo?”

Drawn from his reverie, his eyes snapped up to one Aurelia Niima, who was standing next to his table with a slowly dawning expression of suspicion over her pretty features. Her face was flushed from the drink, and her shirt was loosened so that the dip of her cleavage drew his eyes down to the tanned, slight swells of her breasts. Her hair was still tied up in a chignon, though strands had come loose around her face.

She was, undeniably, a striking woman, even in her current state.

Ben hadn’t been acting under any delusion that she might have spotted him, and at the end of the day, it was his job to be three steps ahead of the opposition. If she had been hoping to catch him off guard, she was sorely mistaken.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment after taking his time to look at her. To her credit, she did not shy away from his obvious survey.

“Niima,” he said by way of greeting, and was secretly pleased when her nose scrunched in distaste.

She did not reply.

He gestured lazily around the bar. “I did not take you for someone who would frequent Bemelmans,” he remarked coolly. “Given your inclinations towards _street dogs_.”

He knew, as soon as the words left his mouth, that he was sabotaging his own tentatively hopeful plans to approach her. That, coupled with the way her expression darkened, made him steel himself preparation for a sharp, verbal barb in return. She would be well within her rights to say something—they weren’t in the workplace—and yet she stayed silent. He waited with anticipation for what would surely be a worthy retaliation.

When one did not come, Ben realised with a creeping sense of shame, that she was not _angry_ at him, but rather _embarrassed_.

And yet, he could not bring himself to rectify the situation, but only stare resolutely at her as a new flush crept up her neck and across her cheeks. Her hands were curled tightly into fists, and she swallowed and looked away for a moment before meeting his gaze.

Around them, chatter continued and the music played on, and yet Ben felt that there was nothing in this moment other than the two of them.

“You’re quite right, _Sir_.” She spat the words with all the acidity of a viper. “This would be my first time, though you knew that, didn’t you?” She fixed him with a look that was all arched brows and tight lips. “Considering that you followed me here, and have been listening to us for the better part of a half hour.”

Shocked into silence, Ben felt that at that very moment, it would be better _not_ to speak. Niima was proving with every conversation, as sparse as they were, to be far more astute than he had ever assumed. That, coupled with the alcohol that bolstered her brazenness, made for a deadly mix.

“What were you hoping for, Mr. Solo?” she asked him tartly. “Another chance to belittle me, or to apologize for your atrocious behavior from our last meeting?”

Ben had an excellent poker face, and so while he knew he was giving absolutely nothing away at her words, she seemed to already know the answer, judging from the way she pinned him to the spot with a piercing glare.

“That is why you’ve been _lurking_ around the office recently, isn’t it?” Her smile was sharper than the thorns on a rosebush, and she was just as beautiful in her acidity.

Ben realised, with a sense of mortification, that he was getting _aroused_.

“Presumptuous, Niima,” he murmured by way of a response. He even gave her a small, patronizing little smile. “Perhaps if you bothered to apply this rhetoric to your work, you might actually make a good lawyer.” He stood, leaving crisp bills on his table. She stepped back, and he brushed by her.

He turned, surveying her over his shoulder. “Granted, the mental gymnastics you’ve achieved here in jumping to conclusions is particularly noteworthy.”

Niima was looking particularly irate at this point, but Ben had always been one to go for the kill.

“I’d consider trying The Royale,” he told her with a glance at the bar. “Sweet and cheap.” He cast a pointed, condescending look down at her. “Should suit your tastes.”

As he left her in the wake of his insult, he realised that while he went for the killing blow, he was also one to cut off his own nose to spite his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [McCallans whiskey](https://www.themacallan.com/en)
> 
> [The Carlyle Hotel & Bemelmans Bar](https://www.rosewoodhotels.com/en/the-carlyle-new-york/dining/bemelmans-bar)
> 
> [Paul Stuart pinstripe suit (though I doubt in this universe, Ben would have bought it on sale.)](https://www.paulstuart.com/687992.html)
> 
> thank you for reading, and for any kudos or comments you might leave. you can find me on [twitter: disarmed_](https://twitter.com/disarmed_) in the interim. x


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